Dad. William Wharton

He takes Dad away to prepare him. I go into Dr Santana’s office. There I explain how my father has a deep worry about cancer. I ask Santana to be careful explaining things if there’s anything seriously wrong. Santana’s reading X-rays but assures me he knows how to handle these things. I go back and sit in the waiting room; Sam and Dad pass through to the examination room. I ask Sam if I should stay with Dad through the examination, but he smiles nicely and says he doesn’t think it’ll be necessary. Dad’s more relaxed; despite his prejudices he’s put himself in Sam’s hands. He has to recognize Sam’s natural authority. He really has it, presence.

      Dr Santana comes out after Sam’s taken Dad away. I ask what he thinks might be the trouble. He runs his hand through his hair.

      ‘Well, Mr Tremont, it could be any number of things but I most suspect small growths in his bladder. It’s a question of whether they’re malignant.’

      ‘Will you be able to tell after the cystoscopic?’

      ‘Not really, but I’ll know whether or not they should be taken out. The fact they’re bleeding is not a good sign.’

      I say it once more.

      ‘Honestly, Dr Santana, whatever you do, please break it lightly. This is all a terrible experience for him. He’s a very modest man; just someone manipulating his penis is a big shock.’

      ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Tremont; we’re very careful, especially with older patients.’

      He goes in with Dad. I sit there in the waiting room. I can hear Dad through the door. He’s trying to hold back but there are grunts of pain. A cystoscopic is no fun. After fifteen minutes or so, Sam and Santana come out; Sam motions and says I can go in the examination room.

      Dad’s face is white-green. There are edges of tears in his eyes; he’s sitting on the side of a Gurney table.

      ‘Boy, Johnny, that really hurts.’

      ‘I know, Dad, I had it once.’

      ‘In the army?’

      ‘No, afterwards. I had it done in Germany when we were living there. I thought for sure those Germans were trying to get even with me.’

      ‘Well, John, I hope they don’t do this again; it’d kill me for sure.’

      He’s pulling on his shorts and packing in his penis. It’s wrapped in a piece of gauze and there’s blood. I hand him each article of clothing as he gets dressed.

      I’m buttoning his shirt when Dr Santana comes back in. He has a clipboard in his hand.

      ‘Well, Mr Tremont; we’ll have to look at that.’

      Dad stares at Santana, then at me; his voice quavers.

      ‘What does he mean, Johnny; look? I thought he just looked.’

      Dad turns toward the doctor.

      ‘I mean I’ll have to schedule you for surgery, Mr Tremont.’

      I’m standing behind Dad, signaling like crazy; Santana’s ignoring me. Dad looks around for assurance and I try to smile. Christ, it’s hard to smile when you’re scared out of your mind. Santana goes on.

      ‘Yes, there are some small growths in there and we’ll need to excise them. We’ll go in through the penile canal the way we did today. We won’t do any real surgery. Don’t you worry, Mr Tremont; there’s nothing to it.’

      Big deal. Not to worry. Dad’s already halfway worrying himself to death. He’s wilting; slipping into deep shock. This guy Santana must have skipped all his classes in ‘bedside manner’.

      Santana smiles and leaves. Dad stands there, silent. He looks so damned vulnerable.

      ‘Does he mean I have cancer, Johnny? Growths. That sounds like cancer.’

      I laugh as if this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.

      ‘Hell, no, Dad! Lots of people have growths all the time. He’ll just go in and snip these out to make sure.’

      I’m thinking fast as I can, trying to calm him, reassure him, fool him, help him back on his feet.

      ‘These’re nothing but tiny cysts, Dad, the kind Mother’s had out lots of times. That’s why they call this a cystoscopic examination. If it were cancer, they wouldn’t let you out of here today; they’d cut you right open and operate.’

      God, it’s pitiful watching him watch me; wanting to believe, afraid. I finish dressing him; his hands are too shaky to tie shoes.

      We go into Santana’s office. Dad sits down and I stand in back of his chair. Santana is sitting at his desk, still looking at X-rays. I keep trying to catch his eye but can’t.

      At last he looks up and says, ‘OK, Mr Tremont, I’ve scheduled you for the tenth of March; we should get at this soon as possible.’

      That’s in about two weeks. Dad sits there, nodding his head. This is the boss talking to him again and whatever the boss says is right. Even though he’s scared to death, he’s shaking his head and smiling, putting his hand over his teeth; doing the whole thing.

      I want to confront Santana about his blunt presentation, but even more, I have to get Dad out of there fast. I hate dashing off again without visiting Mom, but she’d see right through Dad. That’s all she needs.

      So what do I do now? Mostly, I want to talk with Joan. But first I need to help Dad settle down. I take him home and pour us both a drink of the muscatel wine. I turn on one of those contest shows. Dad sits in his platform rocker, not looking at the TV.

      ‘Johnny, really; do you think it’s serious?’

      ‘Dad, if it were serious, do you think they’d wait two weeks? They wouldn’t wait like this. You have an ordinary everyday cyst. You know how many cysts Mother’s had taken off. It’s nothing at all. Stop worrying.’

      At least he’s listening to me.

      ‘Oh, it’s a cyst, just a cyst.’

      I pick it up.

      ‘Sure, just a cyst, nothing to worry about.’

      I’m lying like hell. I don’t know; it could be anything, but there’s no sense having him worry for the next two weeks.

      We try to watch the TV. There are people sitting on top of each other in something like a giant three-dimensional tic-tac-toe design. Different boxes light up and they’re trying to beat each other answering questions. Dad’s mumbling half to himself.

      ‘Just a cyst, that’s nothing. Nothing to worry about, only a cyst.’

      Sometimes he turns his head and looks out the window at the car and I think he’s seeing something, then he turns to me and smiles.

      ‘It’s only a cyst. Nothing to worry about there. Nothing at all.’

      I wish I could get asshole Santana to sit here and watch this. I tell Dad the lie again about the cystoscopic examination only looking for cysts. I don’t really know why they call it a cystoscopic examination but I’m glad for the coincidence.

      Finally, he begins to relax, to smile naturally sometimes. I go all out for dinner and cook a couple big T-bone steaks. We have beer with them and coffee afterward. We really eat. Dad enjoys this. He’s coming around, gaining back some of his confidence, making up lost ground. We try some man-talk, at least as much man-talk as we can manage. It’s hard with him. It’s not just because we’re father and son, but he hasn’t had much experience.

      Not long after dinner, Dad goes to bed; he’s completely pooped. I sit up in the living room and turn on the television. I find an old movie I really like called. It Happened One Night, with Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. This might just be the most romantic film ever made.

      I’m needing a woman’s care, love. I’m lonesome, not just horny, lonesome. There’s something about being